So soon? “Does ... does it mention Grand by name?”Or refer to his invention as a war machine?
“Not thus far. Here, allow me to translate.”
As Mr. Arthur proceeded to read the headlining article aloud, Clara envisioned each word printed in bold black ink.
“‘Second of April, 1860. Mechanical Marvel Wings Across the Sky. Days ago, dozens of London’s longshoremen sighted a giant mechanical owl as it emerged from a warehouse and flew over the Thames. Their story was taken for fiction until corroborating reports trickled in from across Greater London, and later, from England’s southern coast, where fishermen witnessed a great owllike machine venturing across the North Sea. As each additional account confirmed its predecessor, frenzied fascination engulfed the city of London, from Cheapside’s pubs to the elite parlors of theton. Speculations have run the gamut from a publicity stunt to a deranged daredevil, but nothing has been confirmed, leaving many questions unanswered. What exactly is this mechanical marvel? Is it a weapon or simply a new form of transport? Where is it bound for, and most importantly, who is the madman at the helm?’”
An aching emptiness swept over Clara as though she had not eaten a bite.Madman.That label, manipulated in the hands of her cruel ex-fiancé, was all it would take to have Grand locked away, should he be found out.
“By jove!” Mr. Arthur gawked at the paper.
Mum tossed a stroopwafel crumb at Mr. Arthur and hit the target of his nose. “Don’t keep it to yourself, boy. What else does it say?”
“Apologies, Mrs. S. But you’re not going to believe this.” Shifting to the edge of his seat, Mr. Arthur propped his elbows on the table. “‘The identity of the owl’s mysterious pilot is now a valuable commodity as the subject of countless wagers placed in gambling houses, society clubs, and cornerpubs across London. Numerous prize purses are at stake for those wishing to hazard a guess at the pilot’s identity, but the grandest prize of all is that offered by Buckingham Palace.’”
Clara’s chair seemed to tilt beneath her.
“‘Greatly fascinated by the owl and its scientific implications, HRH Prince Albert made an unprecedented announcement on the third of April—if the owl’s pilot will present himself and his invention at the palace, he shall, at that time, receive a royal commendation and patronage purse of ten thousand pounds per annum.’”
“Ducky, just think of all the animals we could rescue with such a sum!”
All Clara could think of were Mr. Forrester’s threats and the glaring limelight the prince’s fascination would cast upon her family. Once the palace learned of the allegations of insanity, the prince’s offer would most assuredly be withdrawn to protect the palace from scandal and Grand would be thrown in Bedlam to keep him quiet.
“‘With the prince’s announcement augmenting public interest here and abroad, betting on the Clockwork Owl, as it’s now being called, commenced in Amsterdam when the machine was spotted flying over the city on...’” Mr. Arthur drew the paper closer, his smile now disturbingly absent.
Clara wrung her hands in her lap. “Go on, then. When was Grand spotted in Amsterdam?”
“Two days ago.”
An unsettling but not surprising bridge of time and space. After all, Grand could travel swifter by owl than they could by ship. Why, then, was Mr. Arthur’s expression so dour? “What else does the article say?”
Mr. Arthur tucked the paper into his overcoat. “Nothing to trouble yourself over, Miss Stanton.”
And blatant avoidance of her question was supposed to be less troubling? “I will have an answer, Mr. Arthur. What elsedoes the paper say about Grand? What are you so reluctant to tell me?”
Mr. Arthur’s throat bobbed as he met her gaze. “Competition for the latest information on the owl has spurred countless papers to anticipate its movements. As of this morning, parties of reporters await the owl in nearly every major city in Europe.”
CHAPTER
11
Standing before a looking glass in the Dancing Clog Inn, Clara attempted to arrange her uncooperative locks in a halfway presentable manner and ignore the disheartenment aching in her chest. The one she’d gone to bed with last night and awoken to at dawn. The one that would remain until Grand was safe in her care once more. An event that would not occur any time soon.
She smoothed her black hair with a brush and then plaited the length, leaving a few natural curls loose to frame her face. Twisting the plait into a simple chignon that would tuck snugly into her bonnet, she began pinning it in place. Her gray eyes strained to focus on the task, so weighted were they by crescents, shadowy and stark. Sleep might have brightened her complexion, if it had come.
As she reached for hairpins strewn on the washstand, Fred scuttled up the furnishing and squeaked for attention. She smiled despite her exhaustion and scratched his wee ears. “Hush, sir. You’re not here, remember?”
Finding an inn that would permit the ermine had proven an impossible task. In the end, Fred had played dead in order to sneak intoDe Dansenklompunder the guise of a stole. At least Mum had taught the rascal one useful trick. She stuck a final pin in her chignon and covered it with a fine silk hairnet for added security. Coiffure complete, she turned from the mirror and transported Fred to his usual perch about Mum’s shoulders.
Sitting on their shared bed, Mum finished buttoning her boots and passed the buttonhook to Clara, who then packed it in the hummingbird bag. While most of her suggestions regarding this trip had been ignored, thankfully Mum had agreed that it would be advantageous to limit their luggage to the bare necessities. Toting a pair of carpetbags was much simpler than arranging for the transport of numerous trunks, especially when one considered that they hadn’t the slightest notion where Grand’s clues might lead from one day to the next, or how long they’d remain in any given city. On this unconventional scavenger hunt, agility was of greater importance than having a new frock to wear every day. A single, sturdy traveling dress could serve a lady quite respectably, if care was taken. And if there was one thing at which Clara excelled, it was taking care of things.
As she checked through a mental list to ensure not one bare necessity was left behind, Mum patted her shoulder comfortingly. “It’ll be all right, love.”
She pursed her lips. Would it? Deep inside, she believed the worst was not only possible, but quite probable.
Begoggled Grand ensnared by a hunting party of journalists who prized newspaper sales above people.
Grand’s name emblazoned in printer’s ink—on the front page of every paper in Europe—alongside the headlineMadman behind the Clockwork Owl Committed to Asylum. Family Left inRuins.
